


indulgence, in no small part

by cykelops



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: M/M, hey rictor maybe dont trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cykelops/pseuds/cykelops
Summary: How lucky is he to find someone while he's in a downward spiral? Real question, because he's pretty sure Pietro is rock bottom.





	indulgence, in no small part

**Author's Note:**

> another pietrorictor unpolished wip

There should be a canyon a mile deep between the X-Factor office and Mutant Town’s Medical Center. Rictor drags his feet and wears down the sidewalk like a man to his execution. 

The Medical Center is on the west side of town, dilapidated as the rest of the neighborhood, no thought spared for the humans who have to look at it from the other side of the street. It's nothing but an apartment building with a blue sign nailed down outside, a few doctors and emergency staff on site. It's the response to Mutant Town’s growing isolation. Why leave the X District to see a sape doctor when you can get treatment right here with only a minor risk of infection? Much as Rictor likes the idea, it lacks the organization and the facilities to make a real difference.

No other place would take Pietro. Anyone who’s anyone in this part of town knows he’s trouble, but much like X-Factor they haven’t figured out if he’s the good or bad kind.  

Rictor shuffles aimlessly in the lobby, hesitant. 

He's the guy you yell at in horror movies. He’s Clarice Starling putting her arm through the bars.

“Mr. Richter?” The woman behind the front desk has seen him enough times to know his name, and it’s not because X-Factor is all that popular. “Maximoff is waiting for you.” 

It makes him smile, that no one will call Pietro _Doctor Maximoff_ and yet he's still allowed in the building. She's made his decision for him. The elevator is broken. Rictor takes the stairs two at a time, steps aside when a woman carrying a patient and a folded wheelchair in either arm with inhuman ease makes her way down past him.

Pietro's clinic claims the whole floor. Whether he requested it or there's not enough staff to fill the place up, Rictor has never asked. He counts three brown, featureless doors and knocks on the fourth. 

He hears Pietro moving around inside before he opens. He looks tired, dead on his feet and pale against the moonlight seeping in through the windows. There are deep purple half-moons beneath his eyes, a line of tension creasing his brow. The trench coat and boots are distinctly absent. Pietro's hair lies matted with sweat against his forehead. There's a sleepy disorientation in his eyes that says maybe he wasn’t waiting for Rictor after all. Hunched over, shoulders drooping, his line of sight begins at Rictor's feet and makes its way up to his face. Recognition settles in at last and the shift is near instantaneous. 

The line of his shoulders straightens with military precision.  Whatever was weighing him down when he opened the door has lifted, and the only lines left on his face are the contours of age and experience. He radiates confidence thick enough to choke on. Pietro runs a hand over the halo of wet hair, trying to tease it back into shape. 

“I wasn't expecting you so early.” Pietro says. Their eyes both meet at the clock over Pietro's shoulder. It's 8:30pm and well past the usual time Rictor comes by. “Oh-- The time. It got away from me, I'm afraid. Funny how that can happen now.” 

Rictor doesn't miss the wistful note in his voice. Pietro ushers him inside . “Come in, Rictor. No need to stand in the hallway.”

He ducks his head and the too-real feeling of a guillotine coming down on the nape of his neck makes him tug his sleeves down and rub away the sensation. 

Rictor has been here enough times to know the layout but while Pietro finds the rest of his clothes on the nearby closet he busies himself with touring the grounds. The kitchenette sits disturbingly clean, unused. He peeks in the banged-up refrigerator, clenching his eyes to shutter out the sound of the door opening and the clinking of beer bottles lining the wall. There’s not so much as a salad in there. Pietro is making up for all that lost time when his powers burned through alcohol like crazy. 

The curtains are drawn closed on all but one of the windows, the one that looks directly over the police station across the street. Rictor makes sure he avoids it.

The apartment is all one room and the bedroom is sectioned off with a divider. Pietro’s bed is a sad little pallet with a  _ One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest  _ style headboard. Living in a rathole can’t be helping Pietro’s mental state. There are more sheets bunched up on the couch than there are on the bed. Rictor lingers at the screen and goes no further than that, but he’s not shy about leaning around the sides. He waves his hand behind the divider and a shadow dances back at him. 

“Uh. Not comfortable in the bed?” He asks, shoving his hands inside his jacket pockets and walking back towards the living room area.

“Far too much space. It has been some time since I’ve slept in comfort. My body has a hard time trusting the mattress.” Pietro smiles wryly. Rictor expected him to throw something on over his running suit but instead he’s changed into a tank top and a pair of sweatpants. He pushes the sheets down onto the rug and sits down at the end of the couch. Rictor feels awkward just standing there so he tentatively sits down beside him. 

“I know what that's like. Couldn't quite find a comfortable position after Murderworld.” He offers casually. “Worse after Mexico. But I'm not a warrior anymore, and it's easier to sleep when you're blackout drunk.” 

Of all the things that bug Rictor about Quicksilver that  _ look  _ he gives him is by far the worst. It’s not pity, pity would get him socked in the jaw. It’s calm and obliging, like Rictor is finally speaking his language. 

“Julio, this pattern of self hatred will spiral and you will be, once again, where you started.” 

“I don’t come here so you can play shrink for me, Quickie.” Rictor snaps. 

Quicksilver doesn’t know him. He strode into town not two months ago and every day he acts more and more like he has a  _ right  _ to Rictor’s own damn business. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back. Rictor grinds his teeth and stands. 

Pietro stops him with a hand on his shoulder, it travels down to his bicep and pulls him back to the couch. Rictor goes without a fight. Pietro’s hand lingers on his arm. Apologetic looks awful on him. He knows the only person Pietro is ever sorry to is Wanda.

“Not your shrink, Rictor.” His fingers tighten and then loosen up and fall away. “Your friend.”

Rictor’s got plenty of those. Five of them waiting for him right now back in a place he’s been allowed to call home. Jamie, Rahne, Terry, Monet, and Guido, all just as damaged as he is. They can’t fix him and he doesn’t want them to. They would never lie to him by selling him dreams of a future in which he and the Earth are one again. None of them ever make him want to do anything as miserable and idiotic as curling up beneath their arm and sobbing. Quicksilver is poison. 

Rictor lowers his head. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and shrugs his shoulders.

“What do you want to hear, then?”

Pietro smiles. He tugs his feet up onto the couch and puts his arm over Rictor’s shoulders.  

“Everything, Rictor. Anything.”

If he’s poison, he’s the kind that makes you feel good and warm before it snuffs you out, and right now that is exactly what Rictor wants.


End file.
